


Hope Is Just A Word

by ruric



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: comment_fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-08
Updated: 2010-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-14 18:49:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruric/pseuds/ruric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John thinks he might just be learning how to speak 'Ronon'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope Is Just A Word

A week after he first asks, John tracks Ronon down to the southside pier. 

Ronon’s leaning against the barrier, his back towards the city, but the slight raise of his shoulders shows he’s aware of John’s presence.

His shirt clings damply to his back, no doubt the result of another long run, and John can hear the whispered rasp as he tries to regain his breath.

“So…” 

He moves to stand beside Ronon and glances down from the heights of Atlantis to the gentle swell of the ocean hundreds of feet below. A pilot shouldn’t get dizzy but when John stands out here and stares down to all that water he does and it’s the dizziness making his gut churn and drying out his mouth. At least that’s what he’s telling himself.

“Have you thought any more about it?”

Ronon’s eyes are narrowed against the glare of the late afternoon sun, he’s not looking down but staring out across the water as if he looks hard enough he’ll be able to see land.

“What?” 

“About staying on Atlantis. We want you to stay. I want you to stay and be part of my team - with McKay and Teyla.”

He turns to look at John, brown eyes focusing from the far distance to the here and now.

“Huh.”

John tilts his head not sure whether that’s a _Yeah-sure_ kinda huh or a _No-way-in-hell_ kinda huh, until Ronon extends his arm, fingers curling around John’s forearm and it’s close enough to a handshake to be an agreement.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

A month in and things seem to be going well until John’s stopped one evening by Tom, the head chef, just as he’s about to leave the mess.

“Uh…Colonel Sheppard, can I have a word?”

“You can have as many as you like.”

Tom’s mouth twists into an expression that John guesses is supposed to be a smile but it falls a long way sort of the mark.

Things have been quiet so for once John has nowhere he urgently needs to be, nothing he has to be doing that Lorne can’t handle for while and if a conversation here keeps the peace, food on the table and Atlantis running smoothly then he can take the time to hear what the problem is.

Tom’s unconsciously wringing his apron between his hands and resolutely staring at a spot on the wall precisely an inch to the left of John’s ear.

“I…uh…we…wondered whether you could perhaps speak to Dex…uh Ronon that is.”

And that…wasn’t quite what John had been expecting.

“What’s the problem?”

“He’s taking a lot of food every time he comes in sir…”

“Well he probably needs to build up – once he’s had a few good meals…”

“No! No, it’s not that sir, he’s taking food with him when he leaves.”

“When he leaves the mess?”

“Yes and well, you know…” Tom’s hands knot tighter in his apron and the man’s gone an interesting shade of red, or is it puce.

They’re not exactly short of food on Atlantis but some supplies, especially those from back home, are guarded more jealously than others and John can see where this could be going.

“I’ll have a word.”

Fifteen minutes later and he’s standing outside Ronon’s quarters as the door slides smoothly open.

Ronon pretty much looms in the doorway, filling the frame. 

“Sheppard. Is there a problem?”

“No…”

There’s one of those awkward silences where they look at each other and then Ronon steps back.

“D’you want to come in?”

John nods and steps inside, eyes taking in the still Spartan feel of the room. Apart from the weapons the only real signs of occupation are a couple of wooden ornaments and a throw the Athosians have traded. That and the small stockpile of food on one table.

Ronon follows John’s gaze and ducks his head so his hair falls forward and John doesn’t think he’s ever seen Ronon blush before.

“Did anyone ever tell you the mess is open 24/7,” he says softly. “You can go there whenever you like – any time day or night. There’ll always be someone there.”

“Huh.”

The soft grunt of surprise, as if he’s offering an unexpected bounty causes something deep in John’s chest to twist and stutter.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

McKay bitches about Ronon – when they’re out on missions or attending briefings or just hanging out quietly between the moments of heart stopping terror when everything goes wrong - with the same steady viciousness that he attacks everything from the quality and taste of the food, to the mess staff’s apparent desire to try and kill him with foreign substances that may be related to the citrus family, to the quality of their quarters and the lack of a rigorous scientific methodology on most of the planets they visit.

“It’s not personal,” John said the first time McKay really went on a roll and he’d seen Ronon’s fingers twitch imperceptibly towards his knife handle.

“I know,” Ronon answered but the tightening around his eyes didn’t make John feel any easier and he’d asked McKay to lighten up. 

But those kind of talks don’t tend to stick in Rodney’s head – attention grabbed more easily by the next gizmo to play with or life threatening situation to resolve.

One day John and Ronon swing by the labs to pick up a report on the way to a briefing with Elizabeth and Lorne about security measures.

“Yes yes, yes I know but….wait Roberston what do you think you’re doing…..Harper put that down! Miko did you speak to whatshisname, you know, sandy brown hair, indistinguishable from none of the other geologists about….Hi Sheppard what do you want?…Harper I said put….

A spark of bright light suddenly erupts from the gizmo Zelenka’s tinkering with. Rodney hits the deck, the scientists all freeze and the lab lights flicker off and then power back up leaving nothing behind but a faint scent of ozone.

“Zelenka!” Rodney practically screeches. “What the hell are you trying to do? Give us all a heart attack with your ill advised tinkering. Stop playing with that until you have a better….”

John tunes it all out, he’s heard a thousand and one variants on this particular theme before and Zelenka simply blinks owlishly at McKay, picks up his tools and continues working while muttering in Czech, his tone leaving no doubt that he’s probably calling into question everything about Rodney McKay from his parentage down to his academic abilities and procedures. 

“Huh.”

John shoots a glance at Ronon, notes the rumbled undertone of barely suppressed laughter and thinks he might just be learning how to speak Ronon.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Four months in and John’s waiting early one morning.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Only if you can keep up.”

Ronon turns, from one step to the next breaking into an easy ground eating pace and John finds he’s having to work harder than he ever has just to stay level, sometimes dropping back a couple of feet where corridors turn or staircases are too narrow to let them run abreast.

John’s world focuses down – to the pounding of their feet across walkways and stairs, the struggle needed to match his breathing to his pace, to run through the aches and pains of a body that hasn’t done this in far too long. 

He’s hyper conscious of sweat prickling his scalp and trickling down his neck, the twinge in his left knee from an old football injury and the fact that nothing feels co-ordinated. His arms, legs, body and lungs all seem to be working against him and slightly out of synch. 

Checking his watch at the 15 minute mark, his breath is ragged and there’s an ache developing under his ribs that he’s trying to breathe through, over or around.

Ronon shoots him a glance that might be concerned and John ignores it, puts on a burst of speed to take him a few feet ahead and finally breaks the barrier. Body no longer fighting him, breathing matched to his pace, his arms are loose and he feels like he could do this forever.

By the time they get back to the gym they’re both soaked and breathless and Ronon easily beats John to the agreed finish line of the main hall. 

Ronon’s head droops between his shoulders for a moment and then he shoots John a long look. An unmistakable once over which ranges from the top of John's head to the tips of his toes before meeting his gaze again.

John hears a soft “huh” but this time there is a grin, a flash of white teeth and its John whose hands are shaking as they peel out of sweaty clothes and shower.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Eight months in and they have a dozen or so different routes around the city – both inside and out – of increasing degrees of difficulty.

The team has settled down and found its balance. 

They’ve survived two encounters with Wraith; made a dozen or so new treaties; helped with the evacuation of settlement on one treaty planet which was being threatened by a volcano and mapped out half a dozen more potential trade partners.

The IOA for once isn’t nagging, threatening, cajoling or interfering – new staff rotated onto Atlantis have settled in well and nobody has died in the last six months. As far as John is concerned this is pretty much as good as it gets.

They’ve agreed the finishing point for this run will be the southside pier.

“Race you to it?”

Ronon grins, hip and shoulder bumping John so he loses a step, and starts to pull away.

“Cheat!” 

But John’s not above a little creative cheating himself, fingers reaching out and snagging the end of one of Ronon’s dreads and tugging.

Then it’s a full out race to the end, solid thump of their feet reverberating on the deck and John’s twisting trying to avoid Ronon’s attempts to shove him out of the way.

Hands slap the barrier at the same time and they’re choking on laughter and the need to breathe. 

John turns his back to the sea, rests his elbows on the rail and tips his head back closing his eyes letting the last of the sun’s rays start to dry the sweat on his face. A breeze ruffles his hair and it’s so peaceful out here – nothing but the whisper of Ronon’s breath, the swell of the ocean and silence. 

A shadow blocks out the sun and John shivers just as Ronon’s leg slides between his. 

Warm fingers cup the back of his neck, a hand curving around his waist, another body plastered to him at hip and belly and he can feel the solid thud of Ronon’s heart beating into his chest.

The kiss starts slow but doesn’t stay that way turning hungry and demanding and John’s body knows what it wants even if his mind is gibbering about what is and isn’t appropriate behavior for the military leader of Atlantis. 

When Ronon finally pulls away they’re both panting and there’s a certain symmetry John thinks to this pier, this spot and 8 months ago and….oh.

“That’s why I stayed.”

Ronon’s grin is fierce and joyful and entirely too satisfied.

“Huh,” is about the only sound John can make.

“Now you’re learning.”

There’s laughter in Ronon’s eyes and a challenge too. “Race you back to the gym?”

And he turns and runs and John thinks that’s just about the lowest move Ronon’s ever pulled because right now he’s not sure he can convince his legs to work.


End file.
